Something about Elias Ward unsettles me. Not in the way danger makes you run — but in the way it makes you hesitate, curious, drawn despite every instinct telling you not to be.
I've never met someone so… still.
He doesn't speak unless he needs to, but when he does, his voice commands the air around him like it was waiting for him to fill it. And those eyes. They don't just look at me—they watch. Memorize. Claim.
When I told him I'd help him… set him up with someone, he didn't even blink. He just leaned forward ever so slightly, and said:
> "You'd do that for me?"
I nodded. Smiled nervously. Lied.
Truth is, I hated how his eyes darkened at that moment, like he knew I was missing something. Like he was amused by my stupidity. But he still said yes. Agreed to let me try.
I don't understand him. One moment he's cold and unreadable. The next, warm in this sharp, terrifying way—like a fire that would burn you just to prove it could.
And the worst part? I keep thinking about him. Dreaming about him.
I saw him again today when I returned to the hospital. I asked—again—about the donor. The nurse, avoiding my gaze, repeated the same line:
> "He won't help unless you agree to his condition."
> "What condition?" I whispered.
> "He hasn't said yet," she replied. "Only that you'll find out when he's ready."
And then, like some kind of haunting, Elias was suddenly behind me. I hadn't even heard him walk in.
> "Luna."
I turned slowly. He was so close. I could smell his cologne — clean, cold, like steel and winter.
> "You seem desperate today," he said softly, but the steel in his voice scratched at something deep inside me.
> "I need the donor," I said. "Please… if there's anything—"
He stepped closer. My breath caught.
> "Anything?" he repeated. "Be careful what you offer me, Luna. I might take it."
I don't know why I shivered. I don't know why, when he reached out and gently pushed a strand of hair behind my ear, I didn't step away.
I should be afraid. But I'm not.
And that might be the most dangerous part of all.
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